Here's to You
by Rosalyn Angel
Summary: [PostRotK, Aragorn and Arwen's wedding. Legolas POV] At a crossroad of thought in which happiness overlaps brooding confusion, Legolas fights to come to terms with his heart and his friendship, with the aid of an Elven friend.


Author's Notes: Originally I had intended for this to be slash. But it took a different, more deeper path as I went along (akin to friendship and moving on). The story is from Legolas' POV, to give it a more personal feel to him. This story, by no means, is a brilliant work of Tolkien (Disclaimer: who owns all but this very story), and there are most likely small mistakes in information. If this troubles you, I'm sorry, but please look past that. 

The most glaringly obvious would be Haldir's appearance. I've only seen the movies, so I don't know where he stands in the book. Supposedly in the movie he dies at Helm's Deep, but I wanted him at the wedding, damn it! He's too cool to die! So . . . let's all just pretend he can be there and ignore that little fact. Call it artistic licence. ^_^

Let me also add this: this is dedicated to my VERY great friend for a couple of years now: RaptorRia. ^_^ She's known as Rap's on FF.Net; I urge you to read her stories! She's helped me a lot; she's a goddess. ^_^ She's probably yelling at me to not dedicate this to her, but you know what!? She can't stop me! BWAHAHAH!

I really have nothing else to say, except that this is my first LotR fanfic. ^_^ I'm very happy to be in this fandom, and can only hope I'm accepted well in reviews. ^~ Enjoy!

"Here's to You"

by: Rosalyn Angel

The wedding was grand. I had expected no less.

The golden goblet is raised to my lips and the red liquid floods past them, swishing once in my mouth before burning down my throat. You and Arwen picked out strong drinks, and some mild; but I went for the one that had the special tang to it. The goblet sits in my palm, its stem extending out between two fingers that balance the head of it. The liquid in it reflects my impassive face, a pale mask of indifference, tainted red by the wine's surface. The deep blue of my eyes is a harsh contrast in the reflection, warring with the crimson for brilliance. Ah, I wonder, since when did I drink?

Since now.

The dining hall is large and bright with the crystal chandeliers high above, a ceiling I have to almost squint to see. The room is filled with guests, both Man and Elf alike, all of regal or warrior bearing. They talk among themselves, of how glorious the actual wedding had been; and then eat their fill at the long table, which stretches down the very length of the hall and is covered by a glimmering white cloth that touches the smooth marble floor. Tall, golden, branched candle sticks line the middle of the table, burning bright on their wicks and dancing gaily. Food platters, perfectly prepared and smelling delicious, are carefully arranged along the table and also are placed on the smaller tables at the sides of the room. Each person has a spot at the main table, their silverware and full plates before them as they smile to each other, discussing how nice the future seems that their King is married to such a maiden.

I sit near the end of the table, opposite of you and Arwen, my legs crossed and my hand resting on bent knee, the other holding my drink. The talk is a buzz in my pointed ears, both the Common Tongue and Elvish, depending on its speakers. Most are seated in their chosen spots; some are up and walking around, tasting the side food or visiting friends. I prefer to sit and drink, gazing into my wine with a sort of detachment I cannot place my finger on. Is that really my face in that reflection?

The celebrations started a few minutes ago, everyone congratulating the King and his beautiful bride. What a stunning couple you two make! She so fair and white in her elven dress, dark hair delicately woven upon her head; and you! So tall and proud you stand, dressed in the finest of silks and tunics and cloaks, your wavy dark hair tamed and hanging around your face, and your beard neatly trimmed – only the best for your wedding. Ah, what a sight you two are. Perfect and radiant together, utmost love shining in your eyes for her as you laugh and exchange words and 'thank you's to the guests around you.

I shake my head, only slightly, and return to my drink. I take another sip, feeling the bubbling sensation slip down my slim throat again. I know I should drink slowly; I do not want to make a fool of myself. But a welcome bliss it is, to make my hearing a buzz.

"How beautiful everything is! and such a King and Queen, even more so!"

"You see how the King smiles and addresses his people? Oh, how fortunate we are!"

I take another sip.

Master Dwarf retired early, after the main wedding. He claimed to be tired; but I think he just doesn't care much for festivities, or perhaps the people in the hall: men and women, Man and Elf; alas, few Dwarves to keep my friend company and feel more at home. Even the Hobbits are here; how merry they are as they sing and swallow their ale! It is such a wonderful occasion. I should join them, and not remain, sulking, at the far corner of the table. 

Am I sulking? I have nothing to sulk about.

"What a future! What a glorious future we have!"

Another sip.

Or do I? I ponder as I stare at my wavering reflection. Is there a reason I sit, far away from my friends, like a shadow and nothing more? . . . ah, my head hurts. Did I drink too much? Perhaps I should put the goblet down and wait to sober myself up. I would do so quickly with Elven abilities, so I should not have to wait long . . .

Before my mind registers to set the wine down, another long-fingered hand plucks it gracefully from my grasp and brings it to another's lips for a sip. I blink, gazing up from my chair to see a silver-clothed Elf who has hair the same shimmering hue, with thick dark eyebrows, one eternally arched more than the other. He sweeps his long cloak behind him to sit down in the elegantly carved chair next to mine, the sparkling fabric spilling over the seat and to the white floor. Like stars, I muse. Ah, the stars . . .

The Elf, with a long pale face and short nose, turns to me and holds up the goblet in the same manner as I held it before. "It is not known for an Elf to indulge in such delicacies," he says in a smooth, almost arrogant tone. "But I suppose, on such an event, it is allowed."

"Since when did the Prince of Mirkwood need Haldir of Lorien's permission to drink wine?" I say, keeping my cool mask on as always. There is a pause then, in my speech, when I wonder if my talk is but a bit slurred or slowed.

Haldir laughs an opened-mouth laugh, lips tugging at up the corners. He seems amused by my small plight, and to this I frown. I was not aware I drank enough to affect my speech, even if it is barely noticeable. "Ah," he says, releasing a tiny sigh. "You are fulfilling entertainment as always, my friend."

I give him a glare to show my disapproval of being titled as entertainment.

"But, come now," Haldir says, raising a hand to grab my shoulder. We are both dressed in our finest and in the colors of our home. I am sure he feels the silk of my dark green shirt, for his hand lingers longer than necessary. He pulls it away and lays it on his lap. "How do you fare this night? I have not seen you up and around with the guests, Legolas Thranduilion."

"Master Dwarf talked so much, I fear I might get swept into another conversation with someone and never be able to enjoy the fine food," I reply, trying to smooth out the slight edge that the wine still had on me. I already feel it wearing off.

"The food!" Haldir exclaims lowly as he turns his head to look at the table, eyeing the said objects. "Aye, Elessar's cooks have outdone themselves. Hm! a banquet fit for a king!" He chuckles. Even the straight-faced Marchwarden of Lorien is jolly tonight, I think; or perhaps he drank his share of the wine, too.

"May I have my glass back?" I ask, nodding my head to the goblet Haldir holds between his fingers, out of my reach; unless I want to stand and snatch it away, but I have my dignity to maintain.

"No," he answers simply, taking a sip from it to empathize his decision.

I frown again, as many do in his presence as a response to his underlying arrogance. "If I cannot have my glass back," I begin coolly, pushing down the thought of sounding irritated, "then you must tell me why you taunt me so."

"Taunt you?" he says, eyebrows lifting. He does not give me a chance to even nod, for he leans forward on one elbow, which is propped on the table, to study my face closer. For the first time I notice his chair is facing mine, a sign that two are in a conversation not to be disturbed. "If you call my actions taunting–" He sloshes around the wine in the glass without spilling a drip. "–then one must wonder how one would act to aid you."

I blink for the second time that night at Haldir, my hands flat on my lap and posture straight and tall against the back of my cushioned seat. What game he is trying, I do not know; but I am willing to play it out and see where it leads. An Elf's game is always a welcome, though this one I fear I may regret, so I proceed cautiously.

"'Tis a demand for knowledge you speak of. Do you play to delve into my head, Haldir?" I ask lightly; but with more authority I add on: "A lowly Marchwarden has no place to demand anything of a Prince."

Again he laughs. "Demand!" he echoes, as if surprised at my statement. "Well then, you are right to despair when I tell you that King Elessar _demands_–" To this word he adds a hint of mirth. "–his best friend's presence by his side. He has not talked to you all day and night long; he wonders if you are hiding from him." He raises his hand, and I silence my own ready mouth as a reflex. "Be it a demand of a King to a lowly Prince. His authority over yours, now, and you must answer."

I feel my breath catch in my throat only for an instant. Have I been avoiding you so? Have I not given you my glances and congratulating nods as a friend would? 

If so, where are the handshake, smile, and embrace I am to give you? They all linger around my face and hands, waiting to be exchanged, but I cannot seem to let them free. Would they not be the gestures of letting you go into the warm arms of the Lady Arwen? That is what I came here for, as a just friend would do, to give my gratification of your wedding. Why am I, then, still sitting here and gazing at the wine goblet Haldir holds? Why, then, do I wish to snatch the glass away and drink all there is until my hearing is a buzz again, and add to that, my eyesight a blur? I came here feeling joyous and elated; but as the loving couple kissed, I wished for the wine.

"Thranduilion?" I hear Haldir. "Thranduilion, are you going to sit there all night long or respond to your King's demands?"

My King? Yes, you are a king now. I stammer uncharacteristically. "I . . ."

So many things have changed! You, from an unknown Ranger when the Fellowship set out from Rivendell, to the high and mighty King of Gondor! And so you sit on the far end of the table, the center of all, your Lady's hand grasped tightly in your own. To think you were once a bloody soldier, covered in dirt and grime, swinging your sword while my arrows sang! True, a leader then you were, but reluctant you also were to do so. Now you seem to glow with pride of your seat, of your people before you. And I, Prince Legolas of Mirkwood, remain virtually unchanged. Not a wrinkle upon my brow or a change in my stature. 

My friend, are you running ahead of me? Is my desperate hold on your tunic slowly being wrenched away as you sprint farther and farther out of my reach? Is your golden-clasped cloak so strained now? I am not ready to let go, my friend, to let you fall into the hold of the fair Lady Arwen and your people. This I think as I realize I have not walked up to you the entire time, as dear Haldir pointed out rightfully so. What a dreadful friend I am, to grasp so tightly; for your tunic seems so beautiful, too glorious to be stretched.

"Thranduilion?"

I blink once more, eyes fluttering to the bustling and bright sight of the party. Haldir is before me, gazing into my face, and still the goblet is out of my reach. (Ah, it reminds me of you being so; what a crude analogy I make.) I wonder briefly, if the wine still infected me, if I would not be able to think so clearly of such horrid things. That thought makes me yearn to taste the drink upon my tongue again, to wash down all of the things leaving a dry sensation in my mouth. I ask again:

"May I have my glass back?"

Haldir chuckles lowly and leans away, giving me my space. He lifts the wine again to his lips, a margin of it disappearing down his throat. "Not until your answer is given, about the King's demand."

"I cannot."

The words are harsh from my lips, yet sadly said. I cringe inwardly at their meaning, laid about before the Marchwarden should he choose to decipher them. Still my demeanor is impassive, as it is throughout all, a cold mask worthy of any Elf – a cold mask that would serve me well, was it true.

"You cannot?" Haldir repeats, his arched eyebrow arching more. "Elessar would be disappointed if I were to return with news like that. Why do you speak so?"

His silver eyes bore into my blue ones; this is his game, I realize. Did I look so pathetic and vulnerable before, that he thought me easy prey for his prying words? Unfortunately I cannot deny, that I fell into his trap.

"I am not ready," I say evenly, not able to meet Haldir's gaze, "of such a task. I am not capable of moving on. My hold on him is something I am not ready to let go; and he advances so fast to the future, you see. Faster than I."

"Hm," he mutters, a solemn look gracing his features. He seems as though he expects me to continue, that something else lay hidden within. 

Go now, dear Haldir, I think; back to the King who is no longer a Ranger but a proud Man of high power and his Lady at his side, far out of my reach now; even my status lies below his. Go back to your King and tell him I cannot give him his requested smile and releasing embrace. I am not ready, you see, of letting go of the precious past and seeing the future. Tell him I wish for my hearing to be a buzz and my eyesight a blur, for I am surrounded by the future and backed into a corner. Tell him to give me more time, dear Haldir, to think about what it all meant or still means to me. Then maybe I shall give him his requested smile.

I say not this out loud, but merely meet Haldir's eyes with my own, hoping to transfer them through my blue orbs into his silver ones. But such a event cannot occur; and he sighs, as if defeated, and sets the goblet down.

"I shall inform him of this ill tiding," he says as he stands gracefully, turning the seat back into the table to show that none occupy it. "But I shall also give him hope of your later decision, which you still have to make."

Aye, indeed, later – would I be ready?

"I thank you, friend Haldir," I say, moving my eyes to stay on the golden goblet. I can feel your eyes on me, Aragorn, from far across the room, bidding me to come and let you go. It cannot happen, not yet.

Haldir bows faintly and steps silently down the length of the table to once again join you, whispering in your ear of my words. I can feel your frown and you look my way, but all you would see is my action of lifting the goblet to my lips and taking another sip as voices around me chatter.

"How bright the future now seems, to have such a King and Queen!"

I heave a sigh, barely audible, and hold the goblet between my fingers in front of me. Yes, how bright the future is – if only it would not blind me. This time, as I begin to take another sip, I welcome the buzz and the blur it brings; and to this – I toast:

"Here's to you, my friend."

~fin~


End file.
